slow typer (chessbobble)

Every morning when he'd come to pick you up, I would look forward to it all night long in bed next to you. Those nights when you were actually in the bed. And he would ring the doorbell - I felt like my heart would come out of my chest. He would smile, and we'd talk, and then you would come down the stairs. And I felt probably like someone who was terminally ill and somehow they managed to forget it for a minute. And then it all comes back!